


all that glitters

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cover Art, Dirty Talk, Glitter, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, M/M, Pet Names, This is just crack, bath bombs, not necessarily SSC, not necessarily trash party material
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rollins helps Rumlow out with bath time. Simple as that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that glitters

  


"Bath time, Princess?" 

Just for that, Rollins gets a punch to his kidney. Usually Jack isn't around when Brock indulges like this, but this time they only begrudgingly let him out of medical on conditional supervision -- and Rollins just happened to be willing to sign him out and keep an eye.

A fall had left Rumlow with aching muscles and miraculously few broken bones, save for a rib (third time this year, _fuck_ ), so despite copious amounts of painkillers, he was still smarting.  _Aching_. He had left Jack sitting pretty in front of his TV, but judging by the man leaning on the doorframe, that had only kept him entertained for so long.

"Fuck off. The shower'll run out of hot water by the time it helps any." Very true. And it isn't like Brock takes baths  _often_ , just when he's hurt, so fuck you anyway, Jack. His second barely has the courtesy to flinch at Brock's weak little hurts-everywhere jab, so it's a little delayed and only after a pointed glare. 

Rollins' judgement doesn't stop Brock from lowering himself into the steaming water, though, and in minutes he's submerged and groaning in relief. 

Rollins is still in the fucking doorway.

L i n g e r i n g.

It's fucking annoying, so Rumlow tells him as much.

Rollins leaves without protest.

And that, despite being  _exactly_ what Brock wanted for his bath (peace and quiet and no judgement from anyone but himself), leaves him concerned. Jack doesn't do  _anything_ without protest, whining, or grumbling. He barely does what Rumlow tells him to do in the field, just under insubordination, and he  _never_ concedes to what his commander wants outside of it. Unless, of course it's exactly what he wants too, and even then, he doesn't do so without a fuss. Even drunk and needy, begging Jack to fuck him over the table, Jack will only acquiesce under his own terms and conditions, like he's going out of his way and doing Rum a huge favor.

The concern remains for five more minutes before Brock can relax again. Fuck Rollins anyway. It's not like Brock  _actually_ needed supervision. This way, he can let his muscles loosen and relax and he can enjoy the heat of the water scalding his skin in peace. Without being dist --

Jack can be quiet when he wants to be. Sometimes, that's a quality of his that Brock forgets about. He only remembers when he hears the soft - _plunk_ \- of an object hitting his bath water. "What the  _fuck_?" His eyes snap open, trying to focus through the haze of warmth and painkillers, but whatever it is that Rollins pelted into his tub is quickly dissolving into a mess of teal and grey.

"The fuck was that?" He looks up, eyes settling on a smug-as-fuck Rollins in the bathroom doorway.

Jack just grins, a mile wide and predatory. Sometimes, Rumlow forgets he can make that expression, and is then astounded at himself for forgetting something so beautiful. "A present for you, for your prissy ass."

It's only then that Rumlow looks back to the water swirling around his legs and torso and  _sees_ it. "You have got to be kidding me." Glitter. The mess of grey in that turquoise disaster that is now his water is teaming with tiny pieces of glitter.

"I just wanted you to stand out, shorty. Didn't want anyone to step on you. Besides, what kind of fairy doesn't like glitter?" And oh, that's fucking  _it._ Rumlow doesn't even have the energy to be dealing with any of Jack's bullshit, much less being called a fairy and  _short_. He ain't either of those things. 

And he must be making a disapproving face, because before he can open his mouth, Jack cuts him off with a smirk -- "Don't argue. You _are_ a goddamn cockslut fairy, Princess. I'd know. Can see the way you look at my dick, practically drooling over it, like you can't wait to choke it down."

And that's -- just because Brock likes to suck cock on the very rare occasion, doesn't mean he's a fag. Jesus, fuck.

He really does understand how that thought has him clambering out of the bathtub faster than he probably should and swinging a fist to slug Rollins in the face. He does, he gets that. He also gets how that punch follows rather swiftly into a little sparring match of half-hearted wrestling and dirty punches and name calling, as per usual. That makes sense. What makes  _less_ sense, however, is how all of that ends in Rollins' cock down Rumlow's throat. 

Really, he has  _no clue_. 

It has nothing to do with the fact that Jack  _does_ have a nice dick -- fat and thick and just long enough. It always feels hot on Brock's tongue, fills up his mouth just right, just enough to make him occasionally choke. And when his mouth is full and there's spit dripping down his chin, it doesn't annoy him  _as much_ when Jack starts running his mouth again, despite his fat lip. "Worship that cock, Captain. Yeah, get it nice and slick. Show me how much you want it." 

It's not annoyance that has Rumlow sucking harder and practically shoving that cock down his throat -- it's not that at all.

He's not really sure what it is. But it's not annoyance and it's certainly not lust or want or need.

Somewhere along the lines, Jack got his fingers in there too, pulling at Rumlow's cheeks to widen the load, talking something awful about him taking two cocks at once. Over his dead fucking body, maybe.

He's been on his knees too long -- they hurt. His ribs hurt. Everything hurts. That doesn't stop him from taking control of this fucking train-wreck and grappling Rollins down to the ground and straddling him, pushing his fingers inside the other man's mouth. " _Shut **up**_." And maybe he will, finally, with something to do with those fingers. Sometimes, Rumlow swears that hell would just be Rollins running his mouth at him on a loop, for all of eternity. He pushes his fingers far enough in that Rollins chokes and coughs, but neither of them comes up for air, no one taps out.

It's a mess of traded positions and elbowing each other in sensitive organs before Rumlow concedes, painkiller fatigue helping him lose that battle annoyingly fast. At least by conceding, he's winning by some standards: Rollins cock splitting him open at the seams. There wasn't much prep, just some hasty spit and a hot second of Rollins telling him how wet his cunt his that he needs a taste -- but there never is. And the haze of painkillers has Rumlow feeling everything at arms length, muted and frustratingly soft. He needs the knife's edge of pain, of Rollins fucking him back against the tub at an angle that a man Brock's age shouldn't even be capable of. Not that he's old.

At some point, Jack moves his fingers to and then from Brock's mouth, eventually letting them come to rest, sticky and dripping, around his wrists, using them for leverage and control. Driving deeper into him each goddamn time. "Please --" And Brock knows Jack has his own control hangups, needs to take the wheel and just pound into him sometimes, but that doesn't give him the right to leave Brock untouched for what feels like hours. So yeah, maybe he begs. "-- fucking please, god  _dammit_ , you self-serving -- fuck.  _Please_." He begs, though he already knows the answer; they've played this game so many times it's almost rote.

"Nah." Calm, Jack drives in hard and grinds up against him, making Brock shake and dig his fingernails in hard enough he's pretty sure he can feel blood. "Like my cock so much, Princess, you can come on it."

Brock's skin is slick with sweat and whatever the fuck was in that shit Jack put in bath tub, and he's pawed at Rollins enough now that the other man is slick with it too. He can feel their bodies slide together as he tries to get any purchase against the other man, to break free from Jack's hold and fist at his own neglected cock. But he's injured. He's drugged. He can't get a good hold.

And Jack won't stop fucking  _talking_.

He won't wipe that shit eating grin off his face, either. "Don't you  _dare._ C'mon, Princess. Come for me." He grinds down harder, fucks into him faster, and _won't shut up_. "C'mon, baby, come. You can do it. You're so good for me." And it's somewhere around there that Rumlow chokes and shudders and pushes his fingernails into his own palms to keep himself from shouting. And yet, even as his breathing evens out and he shakes with the force of Jack still fucking into him, he tells himself it's not Jack's dirty talk that gets him off. _  
_

Jack, who, at this point is just a babbling mess of " _so good_ ", " _my fucking princess_ ", and " _your dripping wet cunt_ ", eventually gets with the goddamn program and grinds into Rumlow one last time before he's grunting into his captain's neck.

"You're disgusting." Rumlow tells him, and makes Jack help him off the goddamn bathroom floor, because he's sore and Rollins only made it worse. 

It's only hours later, after Rumlow wakes up from a short and ill-advised concussion nap, does he realize that he's covered in fucking glitter from that goddamn bath thing. But a quick glance to his second, snoring away on his stomach a few feet away from him, makes it all worth while.

In the dim light of Brock's apartment, Jack's back is gleaming and teaming with glitter, transferred over from their little romp around. Every rise and fall of his torso has it glinting in the muted light and -- yeah, Brock can't even be upset any more. What a goddamn fairy.

**Author's Note:**

> this is trash  ~~i am so sorry~~. it's also total and complete crack. i mean -- glittery bath bomb porn, really? i did not need to make this happen -- but i did.
> 
> anyway, the image is an edited version of a stock photo by steve west ([x](http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/photo/young-man-asleep-in-bath-tub-high-res-stock-photography/85970065)). it isn't about the image, really -- it's mostly about the porn. sorry, mr west.
> 
> this is for my hydra trash fairies. thanks to a certain fairy who helped me with the dirty talk bc i'm shit at it. ilu all to hell and back.


End file.
